


And the Next Day Would Be Christmas

by brynnmck



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-02
Updated: 2007-01-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Next Day Would Be Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://spn-christmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_christmas**](http://spn-christmas.livejournal.com/) , from the prompt " _Gift of the Magi_ theme." Thanks to [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/)**sdwolfpup** for the encouragement and enthusiasm.

"I'm sorry, son."

Dean could feel his jaw clenching, but he forced his voice to stay even. "It's OK, Dad. A hunt's a hunt. You sure you don't want our help?"

"Nah, it's a one-man job, and I don't want you driving the Impala in this weather. You keep an eye on your brother, OK?"

"Yes, sir. You—"

And then the click of the line going dead.

Sam looked up from where he was sprawled out in the cheap armchair across the room, his long arms and legs dangling everywhere and his nose buried in a book, as usual. Dean saw disappointment flicker quickly across his face before his expression settled into a Sam Special, anger and rebellion with a generous side of stubborn. "He's not coming, is he?"

Dean turned away and set the phone down very carefully on its cradle. "No."

"Figures."

 _"Sam."_ The word burst out of him, somewhere between a plea and a threat.

"Sorry," Sam said quietly. Then, after a minute, "What's the big deal? Not like we haven't spent a bunch of Christmases without him before."

Dean shrugged. "There is no big deal."

"Well, obviously there is."

"Well, obviously there's not, because I'm saying there's not," Dean snapped back. He looked around at the luridly decorated room, red and green and tinsel everywhere, a nutcracker (which had been good for a solid ten minutes of joking with Sam) on the bedside table and an eye-scorching wreath on the door and a plastic candy cane about the height and width of one of Dean's legs leaning against the wall in the far corner. Basically, it looked like Santa Claus had chosen their little motel room to toss his Christmas cookies in, and Dean had a sudden, powerful desire to just torch the whole fucking place. "Fuck this," he muttered, ignoring Sam's raised eyebrow, and stormed into the tiny kitchen.

He grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, sucked a few sips down as he leaned against the counter and tried to breathe. It _was_ a big deal, dammit. Sam had tried to be sneaky with the college applications, but Dean knew all of his hiding places and he'd seen them all come in, Stanford and Harvard and Yale and Notre Dame and more, the brochures filled with Collegiate Barbie and Fraternity Ken walking along tree-lined pathways and pretending to study or have deep conversations or save the world or whateverthefuck, and just looking at them was enough to make Dean's skin start itching. But Sam wanted all that, wanted to pretend the world was bright and happy and he didn't know what he knew, and he'd _actually_ study and have deep conversations and, hell, maybe even save the world, but that didn't mean Dean had to like it. It didn't mean he wasn't mentally counting down all the lasts with his little brother—last time they watched the World Series and heckled the broadcasters, last Halloween, last time they'd spend Dean's birthday together, or Sam's, for that matter. (On the plus side, he hoped he'd seen the last time Sam would ever get drunk and puke in his car, but that was a pretty damn small consolation.) Even though Dean was mostly sure that Sam wouldn't cut him out of his life entirely once he went off to Delusional State, things would never be the same again, and the feeling of loss and helplessness was a constant, low-level panic in him.

And that really pissed him off.

So yeah, he'd wanted them all together for Christmas. People had big crazy family reunions all the time at the holidays, with Aunt Esther passing out from too much egg nog and little Susie wetting her pants from excitement and the dog eating half the ham–Dean didn't think it was too much to ask that he could get his family of _three_ in the same place for one damn night.

He glanced out the window. It was only five o'clock or so, but it was pitch dark already. Hunts tended to start early this time of year. Abruptly, he poured the rest of his beer down the drain and strode back into the other room.

"Pack up your shit. We're leaving."

Sam looked up at him, his forehead wrinkled. "What? Where?"

"If Dad can't come to us, we're gonna go to him." He crossed to one of the beds, started rolling up his clothes so he could shove them in his duffle.

" _Won't_ come to us, you mean," Sam muttered in the sullen, pissy tone of voice that was another entry on the short list of things Dean wasn't going to miss the following fall.

"Can it, princess, I'm not in the mood."

"You're the princess," Sam retorted immediately, then, "I'm just saying, Dean, if he can't be bothered to make it down here even though it's obviously important to you, I'm not really sure why we should risk our asses driving around in the snow looking for him. We don't even know exactly where he is."

"He can't be more than a couple of hours away. We'll call Bobby when we head out—he gave Dad the lead, he'll know where to start looking." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam chewing on his lip, considering.

"What if we don't find him?"

"We will."

"Don't you think he'll be mad?"

Dean checked the chamber on his .45. "Maybe."

"Then why—"

"Because it's Christmas fucking Eve, Sam!" Dean exploded. "Now pack up your shit and get in the fucking car before I beat you to death with that freaky-ass candy cane!"

Sam just looked at him for a few seconds. "Wow, Dean," he said finally, solemn. "It's really amazing that Hallmark hasn't hired you yet."

Dean closed his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides. "Sammy, I swear to God—"

"I'm going, dude, I'm going," Sam chuckled, heaving himself up and grabbing his coat, and Dean had to remind himself that it would kind of defeat the purpose of this whole thing if he killed his brother before they even got out of the parking lot.

 

*****

 

John Winchester was tired, sore, freezing, and up to his elbows in congealing krampus blood. Damn thing had surprised him, jumping him while he'd been busy tracking it. The resulting fight had been short and nasty, but John had come out on the right side of it, which was all that really mattered. The children he'd saved would probably never even know they'd been in danger—just the way John liked it. Now the glow from the small cabin he'd rented for the night beckoned invitingly, but with the compulsion of the hunt over, he couldn't get his own child's voice out of his head, the disappointment underneath the gruff, dutiful tone. Dean thought he hid everything so well, but he forgot that his old man had shared his air for most of his life; John could tell when his oldest son was bullshitting him.

He sighed. He'd tried deliberately to keep tradition from his boys' lives, anything beyond the relentless method of the hunt; every tradition they didn't have was one less thing they'd have to miss when one of these sons of bitches eventually got the best of him. He thought he might have finally been successful with Sam—Lord knew the boy made it clear he didn't need a damn thing from his father—but Dean, Dean just kept trying, the same dogged, single-minded determination he put to everything. And something was _off_ about Sam, too, these days, something tense and secret even in his interactions with Dean, and John didn't even know how to begin to hunt that down.

He honestly wasn't sure which of his sons he'd done more harm to.

He was exhausted, and filthy, and he'd already paid for the cabin. Swearing under his breath, he jerked the truck into reverse.

 

 

*****

"Dean, I'm telling you, you're going the wrong way."

"Bobby said due north! I'm going due north!"

"Yeah, through a snowbank."

"Do you want to fucking drive?"

"Yes."

"Well, too bad."

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful… and soooo is Deeeean's driiiving…"

"I swear to God, Sam. I swear to fucking God."

 

 

*****

"You'd sure think, with wheels that big, you'd get better traction."

"Life's full of surprises. Thanks for stopping, with the holiday and all."

"No problem. I'm headed home to a house full of teenagers on candy-cane highs; I'm not in a big rush. You got kids?"

"Two sons."

"Well, then. You need all the help you can get."

 

 

*****

"I'm sorry, Dean, OK? I didn't know it was loaded."

"Didn't I teach you to lie better than that? Ooh, hey, grandma type at the desk. You're up."

"Good evening, ma'am. We're looking to surprise our dad, as a Christmas gift. Do you by any chance have a John Porter staying here?"

 

 

*****

"Hi. Can I get the room number for Sam and Dean Porter? I'm their father."

 

 

*****

_"Shit."_

 

 

*****

_"Shit."_

 

 

*****

 

Dean stared at the phone in his hand for a few seconds, silently willing the Caller ID to change.

"Want me to talk to him?" Sam asked.

"No." When the phone still displayed _DAD_ despite exposure to the mighty force of his will, Dean sighed and hit the "call" button. "Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Dean." His father's voice was dangerously calm. Dean silently mouthed, _shit_ , and Sam grimaced and leaned over to listen.

Dean cleared his throat. "Dad, I—"

"Is your brother with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you mind telling me just where in the holy hell you two are?"

"Uh…" Dean winced. "A few miles outside of Burschville?"

"I can't believe you, Dean. I just spent three hours up to my ass in snowdrifts… What were you _thinking_?"

"Don't blame this on him," Sam shouted hotly into the phone, and Dean elbowed him away with a quick, sharp shake of his head. Sam made a face at him, but shut up. There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally,

"Stay put," his dad told him flatly. "I'm coming to you. The cabin's paid for already; check in under the name Porter."

"I'm sorry, sir," Dean started, "I—"

"We'll talk about it later." And then the line went dead again.

Dean clicked his phone shut, tried to ignore the cold lump in his stomach. Sam was watching him.

"Canada's not that far," Sam offered suddenly.

In spite of himself, Dean snorted out a laugh. "Go unload the trunk, bitch."

 

*****

 

When John pulled up in front of the cabin again, he was still tired, still sore, and still freezing, but at least he'd left most of the krampus blood behind in a filling station bathroom. He'd also spent most of the trip being pissed off, and pissed off at himself for being pissed off, knowing that Mary would have known the right thing to do or say or wouldn't have let things get to where they were in the first place. He was in over his head, every day, and the feeling hadn't gone away in seventeen years.

He forced himself not to slam the door of the truck, crunched his way through the snow to the cabin's small porch. He could hear his boys' voices through the door.

"You're disgusting," Sam was saying.

"Answer the question, Sammy!" Dean insisted.

John stepped quietly up to the window and peered inside. The TV was on in the living room, and he could see several empty bottles of beer on the coffee table. Dean's arm was hanging off one side of the couch, Sammy's grasshopper legs skewed at odd angles over the back. The boy was a sprawler, always had been.

"I wouldn't have sex with the Grinch _or_ the Heat Miser!" Sam protested, his feet twitching in obvious discomfort.

"That's why it's called Death Is Not An Option, genius."

Listening to them, John found himself leaning against the window frame, long, silent laughs rolling out of him and a surge of love like a tidal wave in his chest. His boys. His _boys_. They were so much smarter than he was.

For once, he didn't try to cut the tiny thread of giddiness spiraling through him, slipped silently off the porch and set off through the snow again, taking cover behind one of the large trees surrounding the cabin. When he was ready, he put all the command he could into his voice. "Dean! Sam! Front and center, now!"

The voices inside stopped immediately, replaced by the sound of scrambling, and it was only a few seconds before his sons stumbled out through the front door. They both looked guilty and more than a little nervous, but it was the touch of defiance in Sam's posture that sealed his fate.

The snowball caught him square in the chest.

There was a brief, stunned pause, and then Dean's and Sam's faces lit in identical expressions of surprise and delight. Whooping, Dean caught Sam's arm and they both leaped over the porch railing to take cover on the far side of the cabin.

John wasn't sure how long the battle raged, but it involved a lot of trash-talking, a lot of switching sides, and enough underhanded tactics to make a man proud. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to hear his boys laugh _with_ him and not just _near_ him, to be part of their fun instead of the one breaking it up. He knew that it couldn't last, that discipline and focus were as important as they'd ever been, but his sons had driven miles in the snow to see him and for once, he was determined not to disappoint them.

It was never clear who won; by the time exhaustion forced a cease-fire, they were all covered head to toe in bursts of white. Afterwards, they stretched out on the floor in front of the dying fire with chipped mugs of Irish coffee in their hands. Technically, Sam wasn't old enough to drink, but John figured if he could use alcohol on his son as an anesthetic, he could justify using it for warmth, too. Sam was inspecting a bruise on his forearm, his tousled hair still damp and his eyelids at half-mast.

"Pussy," Dean observed from his place between them.

"Cheater," Sam retorted. "No rocks in the snowballs. It's not a difficult rule to remember. Do you want me to write it down for you?"

"Hey," Dean said, looking at the watch on Sam's wrist. "It's two a.m. Merry Christmas, Sammy."

Sam grinned. "Hey. Merry Christmas." Then he turned his head to face John, and the tentative expression on his face hurt John's heart. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Merry Christmas, son," he answered, a little hoarse, but as firm as he could make it. Sam's smile widened. Between them, Dean was grinning up at the ceiling like he'd just won the lottery. John closed his eyes.

 _Merry Christmas, Mary_ , he thought, his chest tight, and despite his snow-soaked clothes and the puny fire, he was warmer than he'd been in months. _I hope you're watching._


End file.
